Читать книгу The Unconventional Bride - Lindsay Armstrong - Страница 8

THREE weeks later, Mel Ethridge was driving a tractor to the storage shed with a load of pineapples in the trailer. It was a pleasant, sunny morning, spring had sprung, and she was feeling a bit better to be out and about and working on Raspberry Hill.

It had been a tough three weeks in more ways than one. Not only had she lost a beloved parent but she’d also made the discovery that Raspberry Hill, a mixed property that grew pineapples and ran fat cattle and was the only home she’d known, was in dire financial straits.

Then she noticed a familiar car, sleek, silver and shining, parked beside the shed—Etienne Hurst’s car.

She sighed but there was no help for it. Etienne was leaning against the car and it was obvious she’d seen him and been seen. Nor was it the first time she’d seen him since the funeral, although prior to it it had been some time. He’d also been out of the country at the time of the accident and had only just got home in time for the funeral.

Since then, as his sister’s next of kin, he’d been present at the reading of the wills, and he knew as well as she did how precarious the situation was. Not only that, if you didn’t dislike him, you had to admit he’d gone out of his way to be helpful to the orphaned Ethridge family.

The problem was, she did dislike him.

She’d resented his sister, who’d married her widowed father out of the blue four years ago and been the root cause of a lot of her problems, and she resented Etienne accordingly; well, that was more or less the scenario.

She brought the tractor to a halt and jumped down. ‘Good day!’ She stripped off her gloves. ‘What can I do for you, Etienne?’

His dark gaze roamed over her dusty jeans, her grease-stained shirt and the bright cotton scarf covering her hair. None of it diminished the slip and flow of a lovely, active figure, the bloom of youth and those amazing eyes.

‘Just came to see how it was going. Good crop this year?’ He gestured to the pineapples.

‘Not bad; we’ve had better, but not bad. Quality is good but,’ she tipped a hand, ‘quantity is down.’ She hauled a pine complete with spiky crown out of the trailer and presented it to him. ‘Take it home; it should be sweet and juicy.’

He weighed it in his hand then placed it on the bonnet. ‘Thanks. How are the cattle going?’

Mel wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m a bit worried about the feed; we didn’t get as much winter rain as we needed but,’ she shrugged, ‘time will tell.’

He grinned. ‘You know what they say about farmers, Mel?’

She shook her head.

‘They’re always complaining.’

Mel folded her arms and studied him comprehensively. He had dark, curly hair and dark eyes, and stamped into his long lines there was not only strength but also magnificent coordination combined with the ability to be very still but supremely alert. An almost hunter-like quality, she’d thought several times, even though he also possessed an easy charm.

Although the more you got know him, the more you began to suspect it didn’t quite hide a cool determination to get his own way. Being possessed of the same trait, a liking for her own way, was not, she foresaw, going to help her in her dealings with him.

She moved at last. ‘You should try it yourself, then you might understand why.’

‘Sorry, only joking,’ he murmured, instantly causing her to feel humourless and pretentious.

To counter it and show him she knew what she was talking about, she offered him a tour of the property.

‘I’d like that—my car or yours?’

She glanced at his clean jeans and pressed short-sleeved blue cotton shirt with flap pockets, then down at herself and finally over to the battered ute she drove. ‘Uh—perhaps we should walk. You’re too clean for my ute and I’m too dirty for your car.’

‘That’s fine with me, although I could put a rug over the seat for you—’

‘No. We’ll walk! Now, first of all,’ she led the way down a path behind the shed, ‘from this little rise you can see the cattle paddocks. Naturally, we rotate them and improve them, so those on the left are “resting” at the moment and,’ she swung her arm, ‘over there you see the herd.’

‘How many head?’

‘About a hundred.’

He said nothing for a moment then stated a figure in dollars.

Mel glanced up at him in surprise because it was a pretty accurate estimate of how much the herd represented to Raspberry Hill in financial terms. ‘You’ve been doing some homework?’

He nodded.

She waited but he said no more so she walked him through a pineapple paddock, showed him the stables where Rimfire, her horse, whickered affectionately and accepted some cube sugar she always kept in her pocket. Then she took him on to her pet project, free-range chickens. Not that she sold the chickens, only the eggs. This time he put some surprisingly astute questions on the cost-profit ratio of the project to her.

‘It’s not that profitable yet,’ she told him, ‘but to be quite honest I don’t care if it never is. I’m passionate about the abolition of battery hens.’

He looked at her keenly. ‘I believe there are a few things you’re passionate about.’

‘Well, yes, I guess there are,’ she conceded. ‘I can’t abide cruelty to animals, or anyone, so I’m a paid-up member of Amnesty International and I raise money for the RSPCA. And since I began to worry about the environment I’ve joined Greenpeace.’

Etienne Hurst’s first instinct was amusement but they were leaning side by side against the fence watching her flock of chickens, and she was so unconsciously lovely in her very serious defence of so much his next sentiment was affection.

All the same, he cautioned himself, do-gooders, especially if they didn’t have a sense of humour, could be hard work at times.

Then he frowned at another thought. ‘How come you seem to run the whole farm, Mel?’

‘When I left school it was all I wanted to do,’ she answered. ‘So I persuaded Dad to let me help and as he and Margot began to travel more and more I—took over more and more. But…’ She paused.

‘Go on,’ he invited.

‘Well, I guess it was becoming obvious we needed an injection of cash for fence improvements, a new dam, a new tractor and so on, but Dad kept deferring it all.’

‘For which you blame me?’ he suggested.

Mel took a breath. ‘Not at all.’

‘Then why do I get the impression you view me along with cane toads and other undesirables?’

Mel coloured and bit her lip.

‘I know you didn’t get on with Margot but I fail to see what that has to do with me,’ he said. ‘Especially now.’

‘I don’t like to say this because I’m sure you’re grieving as much as I am, Etienne, but, since you brought it up, Raspberry Hill started to go downhill from the time Dad married Margot.’

‘She made him happy,’ he pointed out. And when Mel looked uncomfortable, he added, ‘There were also other factors involved. Investments that didn’t turn out well, for example, but I admit that Margot always had expensive tastes.’

Mel watched her busy chickens, heads down and bottoms up, as they enjoyed their large, grassy run and all the choice titbits it offered. Then she turned and looked towards the homestead, situated on a headland that overlooked the waters of the Curtis Coast and, from this angle, silhouetted against the skyline. It was a sprawling old wooden Queenslander beneath a green tin roof, and now, thanks to Etienne’s sister, it was fully restored and a treasure trove of antiques, whereas before it had been a big, untidy but comfortable family home.

But was it fair to transfer her animosity to Margot’s brother? she wondered. And why was she conscious of a feeling of being at sixes and sevens in his company—aware of him—in a way that didn’t often happen to her?

Was it just the usual effect he had on the opposite sex?

‘Uh—she certainly had marvellous taste,’ she said by way of turning aside her thoughts about Etienne Hurst as a man as well as not wishing to speak ill of the dead and regretting her earlier comments on his sister. ‘Anyway, I don’t think there’s much more I can show you, Etienne, but—’ She stopped on a sudden thought. ‘If there’s anything from the house you’d like as a memento of Margot—would you like to come up and have a look?’

He considered. ‘There is a miniature of our mother—’

‘Oh, I know it! It’s still on the dresser in their bedroom. Let’s go up now.’

This time he wouldn’t take no for an answer and insisted on driving her to the house in his car. Mrs Bedwell, who had been the housekeeper at Raspberry Hill for as long as Mel could remember, came out to greet them.

‘Just in time for lunch,’ Mrs Bedwell enthused. ‘I’ve set the table here on the veranda.’

‘But,’ Mel bit her tongue, ‘I mean, I’m not sure if Etienne has time for lunch—’

‘Of course he does!’ Mrs Bedwell resembled a tall, grey but colourfully attired stork and was renowned for her meddling. ‘Now, you just sit down, Mr Hurst—how about a beer? It’s such a lovely, hot day! I’ll get you one and that will give Mel a chance to duck under the shower.’

Mel opened and closed her mouth as Etienne replied that he could do with a beer, thank you very much, and Mrs Bedwell caught her wrist and steered her inside.

‘Will you stop pushing me around?’ she said to Mrs Bedwell once they were out of earshot. ‘And how can you give him lunch when you’ve only just laid eyes on him, and how about consulting me first before you issue invitations left, right and centre?’

‘How? It’s simple—I saw him drive in, I give you lunch every day and if you think I can’t stretch it to two you don’t know me very well, Mel! As for issuing invitations left, right and centre, I just knew it would never cross your mind to do it so I figured I might as well do it for you. You’ve got ten minutes!’

‘But why do we need him to come to lunch?’ Mel protested.

Mrs Bedwell put her hands on her hips. ‘Only you could be so thick, Mel. Now, you just do as you’re told and make sure you’re nice to him!’

Mel regarded Mrs Bedwell’s retreating back with smouldering eyes despite the fact that she was extremely fond of her, then she shrugged and went to shower.

Fifteen minutes later, she came out onto the veranda in clean jeans and a floral blouse and carrying the miniature carefully wrapped up in tissue paper. She’d run the gauntlet of Mrs Bedwell again, to be asked in exasperated tones why she couldn’t have worn a dress, and had answered simply that it hadn’t crossed her mind.

‘Sorry,’ she sat down opposite Etienne, who rose briefly, ‘to have left you alone like this but Mrs Bedwell is a stickler for the niceties.’

He looked at his watch then took in her appearance. All the dust and grease had disappeared. Her hair, released from the scarf, rippled and glinted like new pennies in a well-brushed loose cascade to her shoulders and her skin was smooth and fresh.

‘I was prepared for at least half an hour, so you did well.’ He reached for his beer but for some reason their gazes locked.

Something trickled along Mel’s nerve-endings as she couldn’t look away, a strange little frisson that made her feel excited but also vulnerable and somehow at the mercy of this man.

Then he cut the eye contact but not before Mel remembered the look she’d intercepted from him three weeks earlier. A look that, in the most surprising circumstances, had held her trapped at the sheer unexpectedness of it. It came back to her now, and left her posing a question to herself.

For the first time since she’d known him, was Etienne Hurst looking at her as a woman rather than a troublesome tomboy who’d always made it clear she didn’t like him? But, perhaps more pertinently, was she responding in kind to it?

‘How are the boys?’

She blinked and tried to deal with the change of subject smoothly as she thought of her three brothers, Justin, Ewan and Tosh, aged fifteen, twelve and ten respectively. ‘As well as can be expected. Still lost and bewildered. Tosh was having nightmares so I got him a puppy.’ She grimaced.

Tosh, short for Thomas, which Ewan hadn’t been able to pronounce so the baby name of Tosh had stuck, had been allowed to choose his puppy. The result was a three-month-old tan and white Jack Russell he’d named Batman, who was almost as mischievous and trouble-prone as his new owner. Although, since Batman had been allowed to sleep on Tosh’s bed, the nightmares had stopped.

‘Talking of Batman,’ Mel added as Mrs Bedwell came on the veranda pushing a trolley, ‘where is the little monster?’

Mrs Bedwell laid before them a minor feast. Cold chicken and ham, a green salad, her home-grown and cooked beetroot, new potatoes in their jackets sprinkled with parsley and drizzled with garlic butter and warm crusty rolls. ‘That dratted dog,’ she intoned, ‘is asleep, thank the lord!’

‘What’s he done this morning?’ Mel asked with resignation.

‘You wouldn’t want to know! There.’ Mrs Bedwell stood back. ‘Enjoy your lunch!’

The smile of thanks Etienne Hurst bestowed on her was dazzling and she retreated indoors in some disarray, causing Mel to think darkly that she resented being included in the universal effect on women this man had, however, well, slightly intoxicating it was.

‘So you’re not working today, Etienne?’ she queried as they started their lunch.

‘I am. I’m just taking a few hours off to make sure you’re coping, Mel.’

She broke open a roll and buttered it. ‘It’s going to be a bit of a battle, obviously, but—’

‘It’s going to be an uphill battle, Mel,’ he broke in, ‘let’s not beat about the bush. All your profits are going to go in repaying the mortgage on Raspberry Hill.’

She looked up, deep concern in her blue eyes. ‘Surely not. I mean, I can’t believe Dad would have let it get to this stage.’

‘Mel, as I probably don’t need to tell you, seasonal irregularities have made pineapples a dicey crop at the moment. Raspberry Hill would not have been the only property affected—it’s why more and more people have diversified. So it wasn’t so much that your father “let it get to this stage”. If anything the weather has been the problem or at least a significant part of it.’

She said nothing.

He put his knife and fork down. ‘But things having happened the way they have may mean that you have to face the fact that you won’t be able to save Raspberry Hill.’

Mel said huskily, ‘I can’t believe that. We all love it so much, the boys as much as I do.’

‘They…they’re young, Mel,’ he said.

‘Young enough to get over it? I don’t know. It’s also a unifying factor in our lives and our heritage.’ She stared at her plate with deep distress then pushed it impatiently away half-finished. ‘I will not,’ the distress was suddenly replaced with determination, ‘give up, Etienne. Whatever it takes to save Raspberry Hill I will do.’

‘Such as?’

The question came with businesslike precision.

‘I may have to subdivide it. That’s one thing I’ve been thinking of,’ she said slowly.

‘It’s a possibility,’ he agreed. ‘But then you face the prospect of a smaller holding being unviable.’

Mel swallowed hard. ‘Maybe a guest farm? I think there’s a market for real country experience holidays.’

Something in his dark gaze softened but he didn’t respond.

‘What’s so silly about that?’ she asked tartly.

‘It’s not that it’s silly but you’d need capital to start it off.’

‘A lot of misguided capital has been spent on this house,’ she said.

‘I take your point,’ he replied evenly, ‘but it may not be that easy to realise. There’s also the problem of who is going to stand in loco parentis of three young boys.’

Mel was crumbling what was left of her roll into tiny pieces as she struggled with perhaps the greatest of her problems, when a ball of white and tan fur erupted onto the veranda and Batman leapt onto her lap. He licked her face profusely, knocked her side-plate off the table then leapt down to do an ecstatic jig along the floorboards.

Mrs Bedwell arrived hot on his heels and scooped him up in her arms. ‘You little wretch! As if I haven’t got enough to do without babysitting you—why on earth didn’t that plate break?’

Etienne got up. ‘Here, I’ll take him. Whoa!’ he said as the dog was put in his arms. ‘No licking, mate!’ He sat down with him and Batman subsided with an ecstatic expression as he was scratched behind his ears.

‘You like dogs?’ Mel asked, still blinking at the whirlwind events that had just overtaken her.

‘Sure. I even had one of these as a kid. He was also as mad as a hatter but very loyal.’

She frowned. ‘I can’t picture that.’

‘Me or the dog?’

‘Uh—you.’

‘You assumed I came into the world all grown up?’

‘Truth to tell, since you had a French mother and both have—had—French names,’ she amended, ‘I’ve always associated you with an exotic background rather than a kid with a dog. I know Margot was born in Vanuatu.’

‘She was but I was born right here in Gladstone, and other than for the name,’ he looked humorous for a moment, ‘I escaped a lot of the exotic influence our French mother exerted on Margot. Our father was a fair-dinkum Aussie.’

‘You certainly sound like one. While she was certainly the essence of chic,’ Mel murmured and frowned again. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you didn’t seem to be very close. Although, of course, I could be quite wrong—but we didn’t see much of you at Raspberry Hill at all.’

He stared into a space for a moment, then down at the contented dog in his arms. ‘No, we weren’t that close. She was ten years older, which is quite a gap, but I guess the other reason is that my business has really expanded in the last five or six years so I’ve had my nose to the grindstone a lot.’

‘Hurst Engineering & Shipping,’ Mel said. ‘I don’t know about having your nose to the grindstone—I once heard Margot put it as “empire building”.’

He shrugged and looked amused.

‘Not only Margot. Even Justin is impressed,’ she added.

‘As a matter of fact, he came to see me about getting a part-time job last week.’

Mel’s eyes widened. ‘He didn’t tell me that!’

‘He—er—never shared your dislike, mistrust or whatever it was of me.’

Mel coloured but it was true. Despite their initial opposition to sharing their father with a stepmother, none of the boys, for that matter, had continued their resentment of Margot nor applied it to Etienne. None of them had realised how the property was going downhill either, she reminded herself drily.

‘Did you give him a job?’

‘I told him I would have one for him in the next school holidays, with your approval.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ Mel said.

‘Getting back to the boys,’ Etienne said, I—’

Mel scraped back her chair and stood up. ‘Etienne, I appreciate your concern but it’s really not your problem.’

Batman pricked up his ears.

Etienne looked down at him then up at Mel. Her expression was one of pride and dignity and it came to him that she could be exasperating at times. It also came to him that in some respects she’d led a very sheltered life, cocooned amongst her family and on Raspberry Hill, and might be less worldly than a lot of girls of her age.

Yet, contrary to what he’d expected, the attraction he’d experienced the day of the funeral was still there. Even looking so proud and unreasonably stubborn, she stirred him. The line of her throat fascinated him. The way she squared her shoulders, always a preliminary to saying something designed to tell him he wasn’t liked or trusted even if not in so many words, drew his attention to the curves of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist and the flare of her hips.

Was she at all aware of the effect she had on him, though? he wondered. What would her reaction be if he revealed his preoccupation with her figure?

‘OK,’ he said, ostensibly to the dog. ‘I rest my case—for the time being. But if you need me, just let me know.’

‘I will,’ Mel agreed.

‘And now I really must go,’ he said politely but with a glint in his eye that indicated to her he knew she was barely able to wait to get rid of him. ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he added, by way, she was quite sure, of adding salt to the wound.

‘I’ll pass your thanks on to Mrs Bedwell. It was all her doing,’ she replied with excessive politeness of her own.

He put Batman down and got up. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, Mel,’ he said softly.

Although she was five feet eight, he was a head taller, which put her at a disadvantage she rarely suffered. It didn’t stop her from saying haughtily, however, ‘Such as?’ as if it was inconceivable she should do anything she might regret.

But as he took his time about answering she realised her heart was beating a little erratically and that strange mixture of excitement and wariness was coursing through her veins again. Why? she wondered. How could he, just by looking at her in a certain way, produce this result in her?

He wasn’t even looking at her in that certain way right now, not as if he had her trapped in his sights as a woman to ponder about. If anything, he was looking down at her with lazy amusement, which didn’t, most unfairly, stop her new awareness of him flooding her.

‘Such as kicking the dog,’ he said softly.

‘I’ve never kicked a dog in my life!’

‘You just had that look about you. But there’s no reason to be incensed over anything,’ he raised an eyebrow, ‘that I know of.’

She set her teeth then unset them. ‘Goodbye, Etienne.’

‘Au revoir, Mel; not quite the same thing.’